


Hold Me in this Wild, Wild World

by magikfanfic



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Backstory, Baze is apparently never ending sadness, M/M, Pre-Rogue One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 12:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9439136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magikfanfic/pseuds/magikfanfic
Summary: In which Baze and Chirrut go for a very long walk on Jedha to commune with kyber, and Chirrut asks for a story.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was supposed to be a lighthearted romp through the desert and some bantering in a smaller cave full of kyber on Jedha. Instead it ended up being something completely different and much sadder. Perhaps I'll eventually write the lighthearted one. I just might need to use Chirrut as the narrating party. 
> 
> Baze's hands, and the repetition of them being big and strong, is basically a reference to the rock biter from the Neverending Story. "They look like big, good, strong hands, don't they? I always thought that's what they were. I couldn't hold onto them [his friends]. The Nothing blew them right out of my hands. I failed." And this image, this idea of this creature who should be able to do something, not being able to do anything and feeling so small because of it despite his power makes me thinks of Baze.
> 
> Title taken from the Bastille song "Warmth", which is one of the many songs on the Baze/Chirrut playlist I listen to when I write them.

Despite the fact that he always looks like the aggressor, with his big guns and gruff expression, it is Chirrut who gets them into trouble ninety perfect of the time. Baze Malbus is not the sort of man who pretends that he is never at fault for something, and he will own the ten percent that is his fault. Even if nine and a half percent of those times are still, somehow, directly related to Chirrut. That last half percent, well, that’s just for his own entertainment. Even the most devout man has to know when to have a little fun, which is just something else that Chirrut has taught him over the course of their years together.

This is one of those many times when it is Chirrut who has led them into trouble, and Baze, like always, has followed. He cannot really remember the exact moment when he agreed to this arrangement. Maybe it was during their early years, teens learning the ways of the Force and training together. Perhaps it occurred rotations after that, when they were older and rolling on the floor of their quarters, all hands and lips and stolen touches, hopeful that no one would open the door but also not quite caring because how could they possibly focus on anything but each other. Still it might have been later. When the first stutterings of the Empire began to be heard, a ripple across the face of the Force, a thing that would wake Chirrut in the night, leave him keening for no discernible reason. Those were nights when Baze would sit with him until dawn, talking, or listening, or just holding until his lover came back to him. Baze’s ability to sense the Force was so small, barely enough to feel Chirrut and the holy city and the kyber. His sleep was always untroubled by the depths of the things that Chirrut knew and saw. 

Yes, it was probably on one of those nights that the arrangement was really cemented, he thinks. Not that he has ever considered leaving Chirrut’s side--what could he do, where could he go, how could he function when the other man has become as intrinsic as another limb or heart?--but there were days when it was more of a possibility. Those nights were the things that showed him that, yes, Chirrut did need him as much as he needed Chirrut. That was something that had bothered Baze, quietly, for years, the idea that he had so little to offer the other man. 

But, no, in those shaken nights when Chirrut seemed to have lost himself on some tumbling thread of the Force, Baze finally saw that he could be as much of an anchor for the man as he was for him. They were tied together, intrinsically, and there was really nowhere else that Baze wanted to be. He made the pact without words because Baze had never needed those anyway, and Chirrut understood with or without them.

Now there is nothing he would not do for the other man, nowhere he would not go. Even if that means he has agreed to accompany Chirrut in his quest to commune with the kyber. These days this task means crossing large stretches of open land as the deposits by their temple--what was once their temple and is now just broken and forgotten--have been occupied, stripped almost completely bare by the Empire. The Empire has taken so much from them both. Just taken it. As though it had always been there waiting for them with no show of respect for the temple or its protectors or the land or the kyber itself.

And Baze, once the most devout Guardian even if he was also probably the least attuned to the Force, could feel the void left by the savage harvesting of the crystals.

There are nights that Chirrut never wants to talk about, Chirrut who seems to always be talking, and that instance is one of them. That night and the night the Jedi fell. Baze, so used to living inside of his own head, understands what it is to have a hurt that runs so deep that it cannot be expressed in words. So he has never pushed the other man to speak of it. But the memory of it makes his jaw clench and makes the blood lust burn through his veins as surely as it did on those nights when he held Chirrut, listening to the weeping, and knowing that he was ineffectual in the face of something so large. 

Baze would gladly fight the universe for Chirrut if he asked him to. Even if it was a losing battle, which it would be, as Baze knows because he is a large, quiet, gruff man, yes, but he has never been a dumb one no matter what people on the outside might think. Baze would fight the universe, and he would die. Then what would become Chirrut? Who would hold his hand or stroke his head or chide him gently and then not so gently when he was preparing to do the most idiotic, foolhardy things known to man?

No one.

Baze is convinced that he is the only person who would be able to tolerate Chirrut for longer than a few days without murdering him. Not only is Baze a naturally patient person, again despite appearances, but he has also been putting up with this nonsense for years. Except the Force, there is nothing in the universe that knows Chirrut better than he does. 

Maybe that is why Baze has fallen out of believing in the Force. Not just because it did not protect the temple or the Jedi or the kyber, but because the Force allowed Chirrut to be hurt, deeply, repeatedly. It allowed that when Baze would have died to prevent it, and he cannot forgive it for that slight. Chrirut is the last person alive who deserves that kind of pain. The Force should have known that and protected him.

On bad days, Baze wonders if Chirrut loves the Force more than he loves him, if his continued presence is simply tolerated because it is useful to have a companion with eyes and a blaster and the appearance of someone who would shoot first and ask questions never. He wonders those things late at night, sitting by himself on the floor of their apartment, while he listens to Chirrut sleep talk. He likes to take those wounds out and press on them to make sure he can still feel. What good is he to Chirrut if he becomes as cold as the night on Jedha? The emotion that comes the easiest to Baze Malbus has always been sorrow, and he courts it when he finds the chance.

Often on those nights, Chirrut will wake to slip into his lap and smooth all the rough edges down even as he pesters him that it is too cold. Too cold on the floor for Baze to sit alone and too cold for him in their bed without the reassuring warmth of his lover there. Chirrut, all bright smiles and sharp tongue and glowing, has always known the best ways to comfort: with affectionate touches and light, tripping words. Baze gets overwhelmed by emotions easily; it is why he has guarded himself so well against them. 

“Mine,” Chirrut will say, fingers on his cheek, fingers that Baze will instinctively turn into, wanting that touch to melt into his soul and linger there so that he will always feel Chirrut, so that he will never be alone. “It is cold, fool. I was freezing without your fur to keep me warm.” At that his hands will pull at Baze’s hair, finding the braids and the bells and whatever else has been woven there. Baze never looks, he just trusts Chirrut with it. 

Those words will continue, a slew of them, combined with the touches necessary to draw him back until Baze chuckles and relents. Some nights this takes no more than a few minutes, and others they sit like that until the cool rays of morning finally fall through their window. On the worst nights, the ones that tick into forever, Chirrut will just press his head to Baze’s chest to listen to him breathe, whispering his prayers to Baze’s heart to calm him. Baze no longer prays, but he finds comfort in the fact that Chirrut does because it is his voice, and it calls back a lifetime of memories, a world of kisses and laughter that seems so far away, but that is within reach when he hears the repetitions.

They have made a love together, a life together, even if it seems like the universe will not respect that, even if it keeps pulling at them. And they are knotted so tight around each other that Baze is not sure what will happen when death comes. He thinks instead on two trees that used to stand in the temple garden; they were not much as far as trees went because the climate of Jedha is hostile to life, but those trees, like the souls on Jedha itself, persisted. They grew together, twined together, until it was impossible to see which branches belonged to which tree. (He remembers that Chirrut’s favorite place to sit in the garden, a loose term, was under those trees.) One of the trees finally succumbed to the environment, grew sick, withered away. The other followed in a matter of days even though there was nothing discernibly wrong with it. 

He thinks that they are like those trees, roots and branches and leaves intertwined. When one goes, the other will follow. He cannot bear the thought of a world without Chirrut, though he supposes that Chirrut could live without him. For a time. Until some stupid stunt of his resulted in his death because there was no one to save him. Except the Force. Who cannot be trusted with Chirrut. It has already proven that. 

Baze thinks about all these things as they walk. It is dark, and cold, and he follows a blind man spinning through the night. Other people would rest and move during the day, but considering the voyage they are undertaking this way makes more sense. Chirrut does not need the day to tell where he is going, though Baze is glad of the light on his staff that allows him to follow. They move through the darkness, Chirrut following the voice of the kyber where it lives and breathes in what Baze thinks must be the last safe place for it on Jedha. 

“You have been thinking much tonight,” Chirrut chastises him after they have traveled a good two hours without saying much. Not that it has been silent. Life with Chirrut has never been silent. When there are not prayers, there is this kind of chiding love talk. Even in sleep there is muttering. They both sleep lightly, but Baze has lost count of the number of times he has lain awake in their bed, Chirrut curled into his side, unable to sleep because of the incessant chatter but unwilling to jostle the other man in order to make it stop. No, Baze Malbus has always savored every word from Chirrut’s mouth. Even the ones that make him want to strangle him. Perhaps especially those because they are normally meant only for him.

“It’s a long journey. I was saving my strength. You would be wise to do the same,” he answers, a low rumble of words as always. Baze is always surprised when Chirrut does not immediately place a hand on him when he speaks. The other man has never made it a secret that he enjoys how he can feel what Baze says. When Baze still believed, their positions would often be reversed. It would be him chanting prayers late into the night while Chirrut was on his lap, ear pressed against his skin, beaming as though that was all the religious experience he needed.

The combination of the staff, the echo box and the Force makes Chirrut formidable and sure of his own abilities. The days when he was relearning everything were difficult, yes, but those days are long behind them. They are both stronger for going through that experience. And Baze is still far too protective but how can he not be. Chirrut protects Baze’s heart, warms his soul and tells him that, yes, he can be loved and, no, he is not the worst of men; in return, Baze makes sure that Chirrut does not kill himself by racing off a precipice because he is sure of what is on the other side or attempt to face too many men in battle. There are both wanting in areas, Baze knows, but they help make sure that those wants do not swallow them whole. 

Chirrut clicks his tongue, a noise that means he is bored and needs something to do so it might as well be annoy Baze for the night, and Baze does not even try to hide his smile. He used to. When they were young, he would tip his chin down so that his hair would fall over his face, and then Chirrut would come dancing over to him, all careful, practiced limbs that, despite all the training, did not like to stay still, and make him look up so that he could see. Or, once the sight had faded from his eyes, just slide his fingers through Baze’s hair to touch the corner of his mouth. These days Chirrut does not even have to do that to see him because he just knows, though Baze loves it when Chirrut does look, practiced hands sliding over his face to catalog every little thing for later. Baze knows from watching the other man that Chirrut looks at nothing as hard as he looks at him. It’s mutual, though he uses his eyes to capture the other, exulting in every little thing, even the simple, unspectacular things are so much more beautiful on Chirrut than they would be on any other face in the galaxy. 

When Chirrut speaks again, Baze expects that it will be either some sort of heartfelt dressing down, or teasing, or just the mantra. Any of these things would delight him, though he would have to put up the pretense of grumbling about it for at least ten minutes in order to keep the other happy. But, no, that is not what Chirrut does. Instead he says, “Tell me a story, Baze.”

This catches the larger man off guard, and he stumbles over a rock in the sand, would have landed on his face if not for the quick, strong grasp of Chirrut’s hand around his arm to steady him and pull him up. Always so strong, his Chirrut. Of course, it is not enough for Chirrut to be allowed to assist him physically without some mention being made of it. “I thought I was the blind one. I shall have to trade you in for a newer model. Perhaps one with actual curls instead of snarls of hair everywhere.”

Baze growls, low and without any fervor, but it is the expected response. “Good luck finding one foolish enough to bother with you. There is a lot your charms don’t make up for, my love.” He takes the hand on his arm and kisses it before letting their fingers twine together. This is a slower way to move through the shifting sand, and it is very likely that Chirrut will only tolerate it for a little bit before he dances back off into the night. There is energy running through him, probably a combination of the Force and the increasing proximity to the kyber, but he will allow himself to be caged for a few moments.

“That is what you think. I will let you know that I was approached by several young men just the other day. They seemed quite taken with me.”

“You mean the ones I had to chase away so they did not raid your donation bowl. Yes, those did seem like lovely young men. If I had known you were courting, I would have let them stay.” Baze has gotten better at this over the years. At first, he was hesitant, uncertain of how to provide Chirrut with the wordplay he obviously so desperately enjoyed. Words had never belonged to Baze. They still did not, but they let him borrow them occasionally. As they got more comfortable with each other, they started to integrate the habits of the other. Baze was much better at physical sparring but now he could verbally banter as well, which delighted Chirrut. And, really, what more could Baze want from life than that. Even if he is not always at home in it. 

Chirrut makes a face that says he is unimpressed, but his eyes seem to glow and there is softness underlying his stern tone. “I have not heard anyone clamoring for your attention. You are simply jealous. It’s those ears of yours.”

The same ears that Chirrut loves to trace his tongue over because he says it makes Baze’s breath catch in his chest just so. “Yes, it must be,” he concedes because that is his part in this give and take of theirs. He runs his thumb over the back of Chirrut’s hand as they continue to walk, though the smaller man has pulled ahead just a bit. Baze’s legs might be longer, but he has always been plodding. Also he is carrying everything and this is a long journey and he was not kidding when he said that they needed to conserve their energy. It’s not his fault that he’s the pragmatist in this relationship.

The fingers squeeze, insistent, and Baze interprets this as Chirrut’s signal that he is going to bound away into the darkness laughing like a child, so he lets go. The result is Chirrut spinning around to face him, sightless eyes tracking him in a way that other people might find disorienting, and that expression. It is serious and stern and just a little hurt at the edge, but it makes Baze chuckle. “You have not told me a story yet,” Chirrut scolds when he has taken Baze’s hand again in a very demanding way that reminds Baze of the early days of their relationship when Chirrut was shoving him into darkened corners of the temple to press bodily against him and kiss him into oblivion.

When Baze sighs, it is long but less exasperated than his normal sighs when Chirrut demands something. That, too, is part of the great act of them, but there is no one here now for the performance. And he is too tired to pretend that he would not do anything for this man. Just because he would does not mean that he wants to. Or even that he can. His lover likes to ask for things that push Baze out of his comfort zone; it has always been this way with them. And, yes, it is probably good for him, but that does not mean he has to like it or like that tendency in his companion. He loves Chirrut, loves everything that he is, but sometimes he does not like the things that Chirrut does because they are either foolish or reckless or annoying. “What sort of story do you want?”

Baze is a little better at stories than at expressing his own words. Nowadays people like to talk to Chirrut because he is welcoming, friendly, and blind, but there was a time when the pilgrims preferred speaking to him. That was back when he was still inundated with the faith, still a Guardian. He was still lumbering and big, but not as intimidating. His stoic nature, his quietness drew them. They would sit with him for hours and just talk, spill everything inside of them, tip the whole great mess of their worlds into his lap because he would listen. Baze could listen for hours. 

Sometimes the truths that they would bring him would shatter him, leave him crying in their room while he prayed, a mess for Chirrut to patch up later. All those burdens he shouldered. Every single one that was brought to him, and every story, every word that those pilgrims had said had lodged in his heart. It was so full that it was hard to move sometimes. 

Chirrut spins his staff with his free hand, creating a strange effect with the light that only Baze can appreciate. There is no one else fool enough to cross the sands at this time of night. It is quiet, it is just them. This is the way Baze wishes it always was. “Tell me of another world,” his lover finally demands. “One with more water.”

Water is scarce on Jedha so this request does not surprise him. Chirrut has never left their moon. Baze knows that he will not leave the kyber even as it is forcibly stolen, and he will not leave the temple despite the fact that it is in ruins. He will not leave their holy city because it means something to him. Even when Baze begs and pleads. And here is another reason why, on the bad nights, Baze thinks Chirrut loves the Force more than him. Though he is careful not to voice these concerns in this way because he fears they will drive the other man away, and that will make Baze a stone for sure. 

Baze, however, has left the moon several times over the years. It is never for too long, and he tries not to go far. It is always too far. The slight pressure that is Chirrut in his skull fades away, and he always spends the entire time with a headache that is only eclipsed by heartache and concern. For his part, Chirrut says he can always feel him, even when he is “bad”. Baze is “bad” far more often than he would like, but it keeps them in necessities. 

One of the stories of his voyages will not do for this, however, because Chirrut knows all of them. Whenever he returns from a trip, he and Chirrut spend the entire day together, touching, trading stories, kissing, reaffirming their devotion to each other. No, this needs to be a different story, something he has not already whispered to him during their time locked together in the dark. Baze thinks back, starts unlocking all those moments with the pilgrims, brushes over them to try and find a good one. He only wants a good one. There are too many bad ones. There always are. Chirrut sees the brightness, the goodness so much more keenly than Baze can even though his eyes still work. Knowing the Force means knowing that there is a balance in the universe, that things are not all one way or the other, but it is always easy for Chirrut to turn his cheek to the light just as Baze gets snarled by the weight. 

He finds one that glows, one that he thinks he has not told before. Some of the details have gotten indistinct over the years, but he thinks it will suit Chirrut. “Many years ago, a pilgrim told me of her homeworld. Before you interrupt me, no, I do not remember what it was called or even if she told me. She came to the temple during one of our rains.” Blissful, wondrous, thunderous things that did not happen nearly enough as far as Baze was concerned. “It frightened her. She said she was not used to that kind of torrent. On her world, the rain fell often but sweetly. Gentle, she called it. Warm and gentle.”

Chirrut’s fingers in his grip tighten almost imperceptibly, a reminder to continue, and that brings another smile to Baze’s lips. “Yes, yes. Be patient, holy man,” he soothes, running his thumb across the expanse of skin on his hand again. “The rains, she said, made things green and lush. The sand on Jedha frightened her as well. I think everything on Jedha frightened her, but that was why she had come, for strength.”

“Did you help her find it?” Chirrut’s voice comes through the night, a chime of hope. It has been a long time since their moon saw hope.

Baze shrugs, a motion that his companion will be unable to see, but one that he can likely feel. “I am not sure. I tried. In the typical way of our preaching. I wanted to help her. She was small and very scared. I never asked her what else frightened her, though it must have been something deeper. All I know for sure is how wistful her eyes were when she spoke of her home, the longing that was there.” This story was supposed to shine. That is why he picked it, brushed it off and took it out, but now it seems to be just as dark and heavy as the rest of them.

Baze wonders if anything in the universe has ever been good other than Chirrut.

“You cannot save everyone,” Chirrut says, and his voice wraps around Baze like a sash. It tries to hold him and protect the empty spaces before something else takes residence there. “If you imparted wisdom to her, you helped her along her course. Only the Force knows what she needed, and it would have given it to her.”

“Whether it was what was best for her or not.” His words have an unexpected sharpness that he did not mean to impart, but his eyes are stinging as he thinks of that girl. Not only was she small and young, but she sat with arms threaded around her legs, making her infinitely smaller. Had he picked her up, Baze thinks, she might have fit in the palm of his great, large hand, and he could have curled his fingers to protect her from everything awful in the world. Baze scrubs his free hand over his face, unaware of the tears until he brushes them from his cheeks. It is not fair that everything hurts, and he blames the Force for this, too.

“Don’t,” Chirrut says, the words as gentle and warm as those aforementioned rains. He stops, staff planted in the sand, and uses one hand to tug Baze to where he wants him. And Baze, great, lumbering, Baze Malbus allows himself to be steered.

“The universe is so vast, my love, there are so many people in it.” Both of Chirrut’s hands trace his features, find the tears that Baze always tries so hard to hide. The fingers smooth over his lips, and, as always, seem to be trying to rub away the scar. Baze’s remembers the look of horror, of pain that flashed across Chirrut’s face the first time he felt it, and his heart is never going to heal from that memory. Or so many others. Sometimes he wonders how he can love at all when there are so many bleeding wounds in him.

“You cannot mend everything. You cannot take everything on yourself.” It is a common argument between them, how Baze wants to save the galaxy because it hurts too much not to. And also because Chirrut exists in the galaxy, and he needs to protect him. “Be my protector first. Leave something for the Force to do. You cannot replace it. It is too vast. I am selfish. I can share the Force, but never you.”

Baze Malbus weeps. This. This is how he can love when he is full of bleeding wounds. Because Chirrut is always there to comfort him in whatever way he needs, and to remind him that he has to let some of it go, he has to let something go. Baze is not good at letting anything go. He has big, strong hands that have been made to grasp and hold on. They were made to keep things safe. He has failed in so many instances. 

Still crying, silently, he leans his forehead down to rest against Chirrut’s, drawing more comfort from the contact. “I will not fail you.” Everything he says to Chirrut is a promise, and he tries to keep all of them even though it is an impossible feat.

There is the press of lips to his cheek, and fingers in his hair. “Just love me, and you never will.”

They are two fools standing in the whipping sand on a cold night in the middle of nowhere on the moon of Jedha. Their holy city is overrun, their temple has been toppled, the shards of kyber crystal that once sung in the night has been all but taken. The Force seems to be a distant cry in the wind that can never be caught. But they have each other. That is something. That is enough. Even when it hurts to think about it.


End file.
